The Screen
by krisinfine
Summary: I had heard him for three months without seeing him... and Erik realises he must end this insane relationship before it destroys him and others. Set just before the events of the novelmusicalmovie.


Today.

Today will be the last time. The very last time I indulge myself in such idiocy. What a foolish creature I have become, risking everything for such a ridiculous and trivial complication.

Once again I am waiting in the small nook beneath the lightwell that shines through the pane of dirty glass into the old storeroom that they found. That she found. Ridiculous girl to spend her time in such a place, but then who am I to talk of strange dwelling places? Foolish creature.

I had awoken this morning in my usual manner, moving immediately from deep sleep to full and unpleasant consciousness without the vague and comforting cloud of half memories and dreams that I am told attend upon most people on their waking. And as usual my first thought was of her. My second thought, also now habitual, was to rage at myself for my folly.

_This will be your destruction, _I told myself, _if not literally, then of your own self, your own pride (and what a pride it is). For now you know how weak your mind is, how frail your soul, that it should be so consumed by this… this girl. You are no better than the sheep who strut and bleat in the imaginary world above. You are as nonsensical as they are, led by their feelings and their whims; you who prided yourself on your mind, your great mind. Fool. Idiot. Slave._

I rose then, still muttering inwardly at how far I had fallen, and I decided that today would be the last time I would visit with her. My little house was still lit with the candles from last night, though I barely needed them simply to see of course. My heart sank further when I remembered why I had needed such crass illumination. Of course. Upon my bureau a new sheaf of paper, each sheet a different sketch of her. A portrait in profile, in full face. A figure drawing of her at the bar, seated upon the floor of that grimy room like an angel in a garrett. I gripped them to tear them to pieces but placed them instead within the crammed drawer of that bureau. With the others.

I breakfasted and glanced at my clock, my heart racing unbidden at the thought that it was nearly time. There was work to do upon my composition, there were messages I should be arranging. There were a hundred and one more worthy things I could and should have been doing but the clock showed that this was the time when her early rehearsals would be taking place. I had learned her times you see and knew when her practise finished, and how long it would take her to travel from her practise room to that little hideaway she had found. And I would be there of course, waiting for her. If she came of course. If she still came. Perhaps she would tire of our little meetings, perhaps she would find better things to do. That would be a fine thing. She should spend her time in the clean air, in the sunlight, with her friends like that dancer Meg. It would make me happy were she never to come again to that room, to me.

I told myself that lie again and again, and I who have deceived so many, so easily, refused to believe it for a second.

It was time. I assumed my more presentable face and began the long journey upward to the imaginary world of the Opera.

And now I am here, as I have said, waiting in the little nook beneath the lightwell. Before me a small pane of dirty glass that allows dim illumination into that storeroom that has become her refuge and recreation. She and her friends discovered it weeks ago (or was it months? I believe it was months) as a hideaway to talk, and gossip, and play. Telling each other stories and tales of heroics and tragedy that soared to the heights of profundity and plunged to the depths of despair. They charmed me and engulfed me those little misses, and I came day by day to listen in secretly from behind that screen of glass. Occasionally I treated them to a word or a phrase of my own to add to their game. The mischief of that thrilled them a little. "It's him, it's the ghost! The ghost is joining in with our games!" But one, only one of them overswayed my senses and drew me back.

Christine. Christine, why must we have met? I was a creature of cold reason, with a heart that existed only to pump my thin blood around this decaying frame. And now? Where was reason? Where was the sense in coming back day after day to indulge myself in simply sharing the company of this girl who, if she were to know one tenth of the truth of me, would be appalled and sickened. This should never have started, and since I cannot turn back the clock then I shall ensure it ends today.

It must be time, surely? But she is not here. I have a clear view into that little room, the dusky pane almost transparent to me while from the other side with the light streaming through it shows nothing of what is behind it. The room is empty still of people, though cluttered with the debris of a dozen long forgotten performances. Perhaps indeed she has seen sense and is now laughing gaily in the daylight, the daylight, with her friends. That would be a good thing, I lie to myself again, and it saves me the task of wielding the surgeon's blade and ending this idiotic liaison. I wonder where she is and why she is late?

Late? Fool, we make no appointments, these meetings are just something that can happen should we both be at liberty to have them, and should we have nothing better with which to fill our time. Another lie. I cannot fool myself as I fool others. What have I become to sit here pining at an empty room for a few minutes of tardiness.

Once she voiced aloud the wish that she could see me face to face. I fled, cold and trembling to my fingertips to the depths of my little house, sitting in the darkness at the enormity of what she had said. This could not be, this could not ever be. I was her Angel of Music and an angel has no form, no flesh, no face and that was safer by far than allowing the merest suspicion that there was more to me than whispered words and shared moments of song and conversation. I resolved in the dark that she would hear no more of me. Not another word. And sure enough the very next night I had crept once more to that little nook behind the screen, and saw her there, and pleaded with her for forgiveness that I had alarmed her by my sudden silence. And so it went on.

But no more. Today I will tell her when she arrives (why is she so late?) that this will be our last meeting. She will weep perhaps and I will force myself to watch that, reminding myself of my cruelty and coldness, before stalking away forever into the darkness and regaining my wits in the familiar solitude.

The door opens and my traitor heart leaps. It is her. Her. Christine, bright shining Christine. How it will hurt me to hurt you and cast you aside like this, but I will do it without remorse, as I have done so many other deeds in this too-long life.

She speaks. Her voice speaks.

"Angel? Are you there?"

I press my fingers to the screen of glass between us.

"I am here,"

She smiles. Oh dear heavens she smiles at the empty air. Child have you nothing better you can do with your brief life than smile into the empty air. She speaks, her voice speaks again.

"How are you?"

Now I smile. So simple a greeting, so banal and innocent a thing to ask of a voice in the dark corners of the world. She sounds a little downcast however.

"I am well, Christine, little Christine. But how are you? Your voice is sad, tell me what troubles you."

She sighs and seats herself on the floor of the room, perfect in grace and untutored poise.

"Elyssa has been teasing me again for always being down here, she thinks I have a lover."

Christine blushes as red as a tomato and I know what forbidden thoughts have just occurred to her.

"You are too young yet, surely, for such a thing?" I tease. She lifts her head with play-outrage upon her face.

"Not so young, Monsieur Angel," she says primly, "but it is not true anyway."

I know the girl that has been teasing her. A gossipy creature with a sharp tongue and a talent for mischief. I find myself contemplating a cold revenge upon her before the reality of my thoughts shocks me. The Shah-in-Shah's executioner and assassin daydreaming the death of a young girl simply for offending another young girl? Monster. Monster that I have become. And this is why it must end now. I frame the words that I will use carefully, choosing like a weapon the way in which I shall say goodbye.

She speaks, her voice speaks again.

"But enough of such things," she says, "tell me something cheerful before we sing."

"What would you like to hear?" I reply. I can be indulgent this last time.

She smiles, and closes her eyes.

"Anything at all," she says, her voice says again. "Tell me anything." She looks so happy, so full of joy to simply hear me speak, to share my company.

I rest my head against the glass screen, weary and defeated.

Tomorrow.

Tomorrow will be the last time.


End file.
